


And so, the Songbirds Speak

by SunStoneSpark



Category: We Happy Few (Video Game)
Genre: Multi, Oneshot, everything is bird themed today because i feel like it uwu, i legit can't add every tag here bcus it's going to get cluttered :(, there's an index at the start which mentions applicable themes and warnings
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-23
Updated: 2020-08-21
Packaged: 2021-03-05 06:06:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 5,045
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25465981
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SunStoneSpark/pseuds/SunStoneSpark
Summary: A collection of oneshots about the lives and loves of the people of Wellington Wells. (Spoiler warnings for all acts & DLC + rated for content at the same level as the game.)
Relationships: Nick Lightbearer/Morrie Memento, Roger Bacon/James Maxwell, Sally Boyle/Anton Verloc, Sally Boyle/Arthur Hastings, Sally Boyle/Robert Byng, Victoria Byng/Prudence Holmes
Comments: 27
Kudos: 19





	1. Here and There Flew the Sparrow (Sally)

**Author's Note:**

> **Index**
> 
> **Here and There Flew the Sparrow (Sally)**  
>  _Post Act 2, 595 words  
>  Content – mild allusions to sexual assault, introspective, sally deserves better in the future_  
> Out on the open sea, Sally thinks back to the men she used to love.
> 
>  **Communication For Lovebirds (James x Roger)**  
>  _Pre ‘They Came From Below’, 779 words  
>  Content – idiots with crushes_  
> In which two enamoured men find each other.
> 
>  **The Drowning Raven (Prudence x Victoria)**  
>  _Pre main game, 566 words  
>  Content – yearning, lost love_  
> On a crisp autumn evening, Victoria reconciles a warm past with a lonely future.
> 
>  **Contracts and Cages (Nick x Morrie)**  
>  _Pre main game, 956 words  
>  Content – substance abuse, sexual references, absolute morons_  
> Morrie’s not thrilled to be kicked out of the band.
> 
>  **A Guide to English Birdwatching for the Discerning Gentlewoman (Victoria)**  
>  _Mid Act 3, 449 words  
>  Content – introspective, england sucks actually_  
> Victoria considers what it really means to be among the English.
> 
>  **Don’t You Haunt My Gilded Cage (Nick x Morrie)**  
>  _Pre main game, 1,699 words  
>  Content – substance abuse, dubcon, sexual content_  
> Years after the band’s broken up, Nick’s gotten divorced and his agent has left him, Morrie visits his former friend in his squalor. They’re both doing awfully, but for a night, they can do awfully together.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Post Act 2, 595 words  
>  Content – mild allusions to sexual assault, introspective, sally deserves better in the future_  
> Out on the open sea, Sally thinks back to the men she used to love.

What was it about powerful men? They were all the same, nice and good for favours and oh-so friendly as long as you stroked their egos, played their little games, complimented their plans and their looks. Well that’s all fairly standard for men, really. But _powerful_ men, it’s one step worse with them. They need that constant validation so much more, the physical affection, the mental, constantly being told they’re the best, the brightest, the most powerful, and then they’d turn around and asked to be handcuffed in bed.

Sally didn’t mind it sometimes, if the going was good, the days quiet, but oh God, to play Anton’s fabulous little naughty nurse after a full day of _‘you know darling, I don’t think that’s a fantastic idea’_ and _‘have you considered that may be highly volatile, dear?’_ was enough to drive a woman mad. And that was always the worst of it, the coy little comments, hints and nudges, but never telling him to his face he was wrong, that he’d screwed up and Sally knew it. Because, oh no, you couldn’t tell him he was _wrong_! He was never wrong! He always had to be _right_ and it always had to be _his_ idea! And it wasn't just Anton, no, it was the bloody General too. The bloody General, with his bloody nice eyes and good stature and concise phrases and that tone of voice that could change in an instant if he knew you were lying to him. That tone of voice could make Sally sick.

And he’d been worse in the end, hadn’t he? Anton was a bastard, a psychopathic fuck with a vile need for attention where a heart should be. But he wasn’t bloody Byng. Anton, bless his homicidal heart, had mostly only tried to frame Sally for a family’s murder. Somehow, she hated that a lot less than being caged. At least the framing had been incompetent. The cage. Was not.

It had been planned well, so well, just keep the bird in a cage, keep her happy and prim and pretty and well fed and send her daughter away so she hates you so so so much. And nourish her sweet little ego with a shrine, a fountain of her, every print, poster, framed commemorative object she’s ever had done, pop it all right next to her happy little supply stash, all stocked so you can keep her down there forever. Or a year. Or whatever, it didn’t matter, it was sick, it was horrible, and then when the bird was there, the General could put his awful hands all over her, and she couldn’t run. She couldn’t. Run.

Men are awful. But Sally likes them anyway. She likes Arthur the best, still. But she won’t see him anymore, and she’s not a fool about that. It’s her and Gwen now, on the high seas, the lands beyond, the Two Musketeers. And he’ll be out there still. Somewhere. It’s better not to think about him now, isn’t it? Spend a decade and a half thinking and all you get is heartbreak. At least she got to kiss him. That was a plus.

But it didn’t matter now! He was _there_ and she was _here_ , but more importantly, she was _here_ , and all of them, all the men who’d dragged her down, held her existence against her, tried to keep her, scorn her, send her away, all the men who’d loved her and hated her in equal measure, they were _there_.

Just her and Gwen. _Here._

Alive. Safe. _Free._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> bonus -  
> [](https://www.flickr.com/photos/56184856@N04/50144335891/in/dateposted/)
> 
> I realised a few days ago that the whole of Act Two hinges on the horrors of emotional labour (particularly that of being a woman) and it's kinda haunted me since... I suppose this is a reflection of that? But I'd definitely like to do the theme more justice someday. Maybe a video essay? If anything'll push me to it, it's this game, there's just so much to talk about! Though tbf, I also really like writing Sally. Her brain's a bit mile-a-minute, and it's not so dissimilar from my own, in that way? Course, I'm not half the amazing chemist she is either. :)
> 
> anyway stan sally and protect her at all costs, cheers


	2. Communication For Lovebirds (James x Roger)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Pre ‘They Came From Below’, 779 words  
>  Content – idiots with crushes_  
> In which two enamoured men find each other.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> How on earth am I the first person to publish anything with Roger and James on AO3? How does that happen? But seriously, if anybody else is producing content for them, please point me over there, I love these two far too much. <3 
> 
> And quick explanatory note, Polari's a sort of unofficial, mostly British based language that grew from and for LGBT+ communities a few hundred years ago to help them discuss things like sex without fear of being understood by peers. In our non Joy fuelled world, it was popularised, and exposed to straight listeners, by 1964 BBC radio show 'Round the Horne'. Whether the world of WHF would even have this, or if the Wellies could even access the BBC, seems unlikely, but it feels like the sort of thing Roger'd definitely know, with his linguistic knowledge. The fic is set ambiguously pre 1961 anyway, so I suppose it doesn't even matter that much, but just something I wanted to explain for anybody curious. :)

He’s _flirting_ with _women._ Over on the other side of the crowded room, admist the din of the latest release from _The Make Believes_ , sits Roger Bacon, and he’s _flirting_ with _women_. He’s gorgeous, and James Maxwell has long since realised the errors of making this man his quarry. But a crush is a crush, and not so easily sated.

James is staring now, _he does realise that he’s staring_ , and then, damn it all, Roger catches his eye. Just like that. Like it was so easy, he just glances up from beneath that pearlescent mask, and he smiles. It’s all charm, oh sweet Jesus, why did it have to be all charm? Smiling is an expression that fits him beautifully, that real, honest smile, not the false platitudes of plaster grins, pasted onto factory mold masks. Those, he was used to seeing on every street corner, their lips tightly buzzing with Joy.

James doesn't really process what’s happening when Roger stands up, gently excusing himself from the arms of the women on either side of him. There’s a truthful apology in his utterances, a care for them as people.

James also isn’t sure when he last blinked. Or swallowed. Or breathed, for that matter.

“I didn’t think you were coming!”

“ _Of course!_ ”, James’ slightly tipsy brain, blended with double entendre at the provocation, replies. He must be the colour of strawberries right now. Would it be visible under the mask? And more importantly, strawberries weren't actually the same colour as strawberry Joy, were they? They _were_ that deeper red he was thinking of. And he was definitely _that_ colour.

“I was actually hoping I’d see you here.”

“You were?” That was a good place to just. Stop talking. “I mean, wow, thank you.” Very good place to just. Stop. _“But why?”_ Oh, bloody hell, he was absolutely sloshed wasn't he? And lo, may the gods of alcohol be kind to a man who wishes to forget his verbal blunders.

Worse still, Roger looks a bit floored at the question. His eyes go sort of panicky and James has no idea if that’s a good or bad outcome. He doesn't know what sort of outcome he’s looking for. He wishes then, as he wished a thousand times, that there was a shorthand to distinguish compatibility. He is, sadly ignorant of Polari, which Roger, considering his linguistic prowess, is unsurprisingly fluent in. He is also unaware of all the little methods that privileged public school and prestigious university boys know, which is not so much a surprise when considering he was born and raised in Somerset. Roger, of course, knows all of these, because of course he does.

And so the two of them find themselves standing there, both with absolutely no idea what sort of signals to look for, or if the other even knows any sort of signal.

So the evening has to pass by more conventional techniques. They settle into an easy conversation with time, and find there is a common language afterall. It is _sailing_ – a passion for which neither has any sort of real knowledge, barring anecdotes and dreamy stories of taking on the high seas ( _perhaps_ aided by a small legion of stunningly handsome men, though they both manage to dance around their want of that), but it is a common ground regardless.

And they talk for hours. The party’s being held in Roger’s apartment, so there’s no worry as the sun rises through shuttered blinds to find them still talking, curled together on the very same sofa that Roger had already spent much of the evening on. James has no idea when he rested his head on Roger’s shoulder, and Roger has no idea when he put his hand on James’ knee.

The room is quiet, almost empty, hushed with the still of early morning, interrupted by the sounds of laughter and jokes. It brings a warm cadence to the ambience of a whirring fridge and humming lamp. Once, there would’ve been birdsong, but even the crows have long since fled this town. Instead, the newly found lovebirds sit inside, warm and merry, thrilled with the glow of something fresh. There are no questions as their lips find each other’s, no need for signs and signals as clothes become strewn across the room.

Whatever is there is innate, a guidance that does not need a philosophical hand, or the harmful barrier of so-called morality. It is love, plain and simple, as they will remind each other for many years to come, in spoken words, in notes, in cakes and baked goods. And it will be, for them, the most wonderful communication of all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No shade at Somerset btw, I'm a Somerset lad myself lol - Just that one more often associates it with Midsomer Murders than academia. That and. I'm really awful at accents, I genuinely haven't a clue what James' accent is, otherwise I would've been more precise. His VA is Bristolian, and maybe I'm just desensitised to the sound of it, but my brain, when trying to identify it, starts and stops at 'South England', so oops I guess. Anyway, that's all delightfully irrelevant!
> 
> Sorry the prose is a bit of a shambles too, but I'd rather post it than mean to fix it and leave it sitting in my drafts for two years. ;-;


	3. The Drowning Raven (Prudence x Victoria)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Pre main game, 566 words  
>  Content – yearning, lost love_  
> On a crisp autumn evening, Victoria reconciles a warm past with a lonely future

_September 6 th, 1964_

_Dearest V,_

_By the time you read this, I’ll be gone._

It was early October now. The trees had lost their last remnants of colour, with the fickle evergreens barely putting up a fight. The grass, ever resilient, remained alive underfoot, splayed out in vivid emerald across the parks that dotted Wellington Wells. These were adorned by decay, flowers dead from motilene spills and toxic water were blotted out by those neon blossoms that only decorated the pathways at night, spilling pink light into alleyways and along walls.

From the room of one manor in the Village, lay a hidden light of that vibrant colour. High up in the building, locked in a rickety little spire that loomed like a facsimile of a church’s steeple, kept aloft through swirling staircases adorned in opulent carpets.

It was a bathroom, up there. Lined in printed curtains, heavy with floral patterns that seemed to weave and curl like vines up into the ceiling. There were lit candles that made the whole place sway, every shadow flicker in the dim light, every empty space filled by the imagination. They cast strange, lingering shapes over the delicately aligned plants, neat and serene in perfectly arranged pots, their shapes all uniform, tucked away behind the bathtub. On the counter lay a pill bottle. Almost empty, save for a few pink shapes residing at the bottom.

And in the middle of it all, stood a lone woman, reading over a letter she’d read a hundred times before.

Victoria knew the words of it. She knew they would not change. That she had been the recipient of a final confession. The confession of a woman who loved her. It did not matter now that she was loved in return. Such things couldn’t be told to the dead.

It is another soul, dearly departed, on her conscience. She hears the rolling of train stock, crashing like thunder, in the back of her mind. She remembers the faces of all those children, looking up at her, questioning.

She remembers Prudence’s face, asking a very different question.

She remembers the simple things the most fondly. The light brushing of fingertips in the office, the way Prudence always lit up when Victoria called her _‘love’_. Her smile was radiant, her eyes glowing with recognition and life. Victoria thinks of all the times she wanted to run away with her, leave it all behind. There’s a simple value in escapism.

 _It is a coward’s value_ , she tells herself, as she takes one of those last few pills. _It is a traitor’s value_. She tries so hard to think these things as she sinks into the warm bath, lit like rose water in the hazy lights. _It is not a value of Duty._ She tries to focus on these things as she submerges beneath the surface, dark hair drifting up to the brink.

All she can think of is falling into those waters. Falling and falling, until it is her and Prudence and nothing else, sinking into fragrant, warm seas, drifting into oblivion.

But in time, she will rise from her bath. She will head downstairs and dry by the fireplace, and by the time she has responded to the blower, made her nightly tea and prepared to sleep, every thought of warm hands on hers, of beautiful smiles and rose filled oceans will be long gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This fic's the literary accompaniment to [this. :3 (Tumblr)](https://sunstonesparkart.tumblr.com/post/624932046844903424/dearest-v-by-the-time-you-read-this-ill-be)
> 
> Something about finding Prudence's note in Victoria's bathroom REALLY got to me, incase y'all couldn't tell.... My love for this ship kinda crept up on me out of nowhere?? Ahh idk, there's always something about angst and yearning in a dynamic that always hits me really hard haha. And once again, I'm the first here writing for this ship (though I'm not as surprised to find a lack of content, femslash is always a bit lacking in fic communities ;-;)


	4. Contracts and Cages (Nick x Morrie)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Pre main game, 956 words  
>  Content – substance abuse, sexual references, absolute morons_  
> Morrie’s not thrilled to be kicked out of the band.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally getting out some chapters that've been loitering in my drafts! <3  
> I'm also not sure if you could ever write a Nick fic that didn't have to be tagged for substance abuse...?

“Sorry mate, you’re fucking _what?”_

Nick puffed himself up big and tall. The ruffles just made him look like a preening bird.

“Kicking you out of the band.”

“Yeah, see, thought you said that the first time, but clearly it’s not my ears that’ve gone out, it’s yours, ‘cause I’m clearly the musical glue here, the magic, the glitz. Well, me and Virgil, but _you_ , oh come on, Norbert, you’re not _fucking deluded_ , are you? What the fuck have you ever done for _The Make Believes?_ ”

It hadn’t been a good day. Nick wasn't sure when the fuck he had last had a good day. Wait, shit, yes he did know, it was last Thursday, because Petunia had taken mercy on him by giving him permission to eat half a pie at three in the morning. Not that he’d needed her permission, but it sure was nice when she didn’t yell at him.

As for now, Nick was fed up. Here was Morrie, yelling at him, again, and he really knew he should be paying attention, only those green pills he’d taken earlier (or were they the blue?) were making the floor feel like the ocean. At least he’d finally told Morrie to fuck off out of his life. And Morrie was mad, why was he _so mad_? Well, _rhetorical_ _question_ , clearly, but he was so stupidly emotive about it. Big sweeping movements and loud noises, blah blah blah, it was all auditory mush, he couldn’t make sense of any of it. But Nick knew damn well that as long as Morrie kept making those swishy-swishy motions with that swishy-swishy floor -

“ _I’m gonna hurl.”_

“I’m having a breakdown here, Pickles! Don’t you _dare_ throw a vomity pity party on my floor!”

-

In Nick’s defence, he managed _not_ to do exactly that. Exhausted and curled over the toilet, his head was still pounding, only now his damn eyes were watering too. Time to swear off the blues. (Or were they the greens? Swear off both. For the day anyway.) At least the lights were dim. Dim, because, as Nick realised in growing annoyance, somebody was standing in the way of them.

“You all done there, mate?”

Nick managed, terribly meekly, and with great, focused effort, to flip him off without ever having to turn around. Morrie just hissed, and slumped down on the floor beside him.

“You just trying to steal all the fame? Is that it?”

There was a miserable gurgling noise from Nick’s stomach in reply.

“Fuck’s sakes, Norbert. Why are you never sober when I need to talk to you?”

“Don’t wanna be.”

“So you can just drink your way out of uncomfortable situations? Oh look, why am I asking when we both know it’s the truth.”

Nick just wanted him to shut up. Why couldn't he use little sentences? Tiny. Little, mini, bitty sentences. Why couldn’t he use them with a good, _quiet_ voice, and slightly further away. Maybe he’d already been using his quiet voice? He sounded different when he used it, always edged with worry, mostly because it was mostly used to coax Nick out of whatever awful trip he was on.

“Just answer me and I’ll. I’ll go? Alright? We’ll talk about this tomorrow, nice and early, hopefully before you’ve had a chance to get all fucked up again.”

It _was_ his quiet, caring voice! If he hadn’t been using it before, he certainly was now. Maybe, just maybe, Nick had enough fortitude to use it to his advantage. Oh, what he was planning was horrible, but only slightly morally horrible, and not, say, grievous bodily harm horrible.

“Morrie?”

Morrie stayed silent, forcing Nick to wrench his tired head all the way around to see him.

“ _Morrie?”_

Morrie let out an irritated little huff, and hummed acknowledgement.

“ _Do you remember_ _December_ _?”_

Now _that_ had done it. In an instant, the pianist’s face lit up in startled recognition, blue eyes unnaturally wide, they caught the faint glimmers of the outside light. And yet, like an utter bastard, he still remained silent.

“ _Do you reme-”_

“ _Yes!_ Of course I bloody remember December!” Morrie looked ashamed of himself for a minute, mostly because his unexpected volume had caused Nick to wince hideously. It had been surprisingly difficult to forget December, but then again, one didn’t forget an entire week in the bed of a bandmate even if they tried to. And Morrie certainly hadn’t tried to, even with all the Joy.

Petunia had been on holiday at the time, not in the typical way somebody always seemed to _‘go on holiday’_ in that town, instead, she’d been bored to tears by Nick’s antics and needed a reprieve by staying with her sister for a while. Regardless, a lonely Nick was an incredibly bored and insecure Nick. So lonely and insecure, that he’d tried it on with Morrie.

“ _Of course I remember!_ But what the fuck does that have to do with anything?” And then it was Nick’s turn to be obnoxiously quiet. He hadn’t really thought the idea through. “It’s not bloody blackmail, is it? If you’re planning to out me to shut me up, you really haven't thought about this. _We are in the music biz_ , mate.” Morrie’s expression took on a new look. Knowing, and so unpleasantly judging. “ _Or were you hoping to just shag the anger out of me?_ ”

Nick made a horrible little noise. It was a sad sound of a man who had been discovered for his petty little plan far earlier than he hoped.

Morrie just laughed, and Nick couldn’t blame him for it.

“You can't even give a good handjob when you’re plastered.”

Somehow, Nick made an even sadder sound than he did before.


	5. A Guide to English Birdwatching for the Discerning Gentlewoman (Victoria)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Mid Act 3, 449 words  
>  Content – introspective, england sucks actually_  
> Victoria considers what it really means to be among the English.

To be more English than the English. It was always going to be quite the predicament. They had so many funny little quirks and conformities. Oh, Victoria had certainly already seen her fair share of them in India, desperate conventions of suppertime and tea ceremonies conducted perfectly to the hour to imitate a country she’d never seen. It all seemed so silly. She’d tell Lady Derby about it sometimes in the evenings, listen to her empty braying in response.

She kept it in mind when she finally moved to the country. Her mother’s parting letter always tucked safely in her desk. She’d take it out sometimes, to thumb over the exquisite penmanship, the curving vowels and flowing syllables, etched in memorium of a woman she’d not seen since. The warning racial slurs penned out in that fluid font still bothered her as much as they always did.

But her mother had not been wrong. She had done it all, adhered, conformed, played pretend until she lost sight of herself. And wasn’t it so much easier with Joy? To forget the dinner table blunders, the mispoken words at the grocer. To smile at your neighbour and know they knew only the present. Remembering was a labour saved for particular moments. And she preferred not to partake.

Then, of course, hadn't she made it so much better with the masks? Pretending to smile was so much easier when the whole world of Wellington Wells was forced to it! She’d hoped at first, perhaps foolishly, in hindsight, that the white porcelain grins could mask her natural complexion. Distract from it, at least. Because she could distract from everything else, lie until she honestly believed her mother dead, a princess of some never heard of country. But every time she stood and smiled with her father, they all knew, didn’t they? Everybody bloody knew. They were too nice to say it. At least to her face. But wasn’t that to be the most English of all? To despise your compatriots, then publicly put it aside for the surface value of cohesion. Were it not for the war, the Victory that wasn’t, the rationing, the bad batches of Joy, would any of that thin cohesion remain? Would it all come crashing down, despite the propaganda, the clawing attempts to unite and corral?

Of course it would. Of course. They’d kill each other in the streets, and she says as much to Ollie when he comes calling. They’d kill each other for every little, petty, ridiculous disagreement and prejudice. Two decades worth of anger. Colliding in something far worse.

Maybe she’d even join them. And wouldn’t that be the most perfectly English thing of all?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wrote this one before playing 'We All Fall Down' - so a few details and the characterisation is a liiiiiiiil bit off, but hopefully it's not too notable <3   
> anyways, love and support victoria byng and especially that time she hit her dad (he had it coming, the bastard)


	6. Don’t You Haunt My Gilded Cage (Nick x Morrie)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Pre main game, 1,699 words_  
>  Content – substance abuse, dubcon, sexual content  
> Years after the band’s broken up, Nick’s gotten divorced and his agent has left him, Morrie visits his former friend in his squalor. They’re both doing awfully, but for a night, they can do awfully together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> see the ending notes for more details on the content tags <3

Nick’s abode was a complete disaster. And that’s if you were trying to be polite about it.

Morrie Memento was beyond such formalities, and had been for many years. He hated trying to get in, always had done. Oh, it was fine and dandy if you had a keycard, but Nick happened to have a streak of backstabbing paranoia that left him replacing his security systems every other Tuesday. Morrie had no idea how he kept funding it.

Nick had been reduced to celebrity announcer at Simon Says. He hadn’t released a new track in almost two years. Hadn’t toured Wellington Wells or even started making pity appearances at the local pubs. He’d become a relic, locked up in his shithole house, as he always was.

Morrie could hardly justify the most recent journey. He’d tag the travel expenses as ‘compassionate spending’ on the business account though, he knew that much. Perhaps, and he’d never admit it to his agent, it was sentimentality. Sentimentality for a man who shunned him for his own solo career. So perhaps Morrie was there for bragging rights. He certainly wouldn’t mind saying it was bragging rights. Nick was, now, of course, rotting away, while Morrie thrived. Well, thriving was a delightfully abstract way of putting it. He could secure enough part time jobs playing at bars to pay the rent. Sometimes, if he was lucky, his agent could get him a place at a barely filled concert hall.

But that, even something as simple as that, gave him bragging rights. That was an important motivator as he propelled himself up dodgy scaffolding in search of an entry, clambering up unsecured planks and across slender walkways. Bragging really was a better reason than sentimentality if you had a predisposition for hostility, and Morrie certainly did.

He finally reached a window that was just a little askew, a shoddy job at replacing it having left it ajar. So he jammed it upwards, and crept in.

The place reeked. Of what? Too much, honestly. Alcohol first and foremost stunk up the carpets, having seeped into them one too many times. Probably that awful cheap whiskey that Nick always seemed to have such a fondness for. Anything that could get him hammered within ten minutes always won a special spot in Nick’s diseased heart. Morrie made a point not to breath in too deeply. There was tangible stink of decay, cloying the air.

It hit Morrie rather suddenly that it may actually be a _person’s_ decay.

He prayed it wasn’t Nick. Remembered all the times it nearly had been, the stupid overdoses, mixing who knows what alcohol with pills he’d just found on the ground, random needles he’d gotten off junkies and groupies. Coming backstage to find him unconscious, head lulled to the ground, pulse mute and eyes glossy.

And then, from below, with the intonation of a demon with a throat condition, came the immediate relief of a gargled cackle. It was an ugly sound from an otherwise beautiful voice. But most importantly, it was very distinctly Nick’s.

Morrie exhaled a gasp he didn’t realise he’d been holding. Hands pressed on the bridge of his nose, he squeezed his eyes tightly shut and breathed. Then he went downstairs.

“Morrie? Morrie, is that you?”

He was in such a bloody state. Slouched over a chair, one leg lopsided over an armrest, the other stretched over the floor, his mask nowhere in sight. He looked like a discarded ragdoll.

“Hello, Norbert.”

“Norbert, _fucking Norbert_ , why is it always Norbert? D’you like taking the piss?”

“It’s your name.”

“No, no,” Nick picked himself up from the chair, arms dangling about as he did so. “Nick’s me. Nick’s me, and Nick’s the god, d’you understand?” He took a few paces towards Morrie, staggering uncontrollably as he did so. “I’ve seen it all, baby. You better believe it.” Nick took one more step, and fell into Morrie, a tangle of gangly limbs and fluffy hair. Morrie tried to set him upright, separate him off, but Nick’s wasn't taking it. He’d got his arms wrapped around Morrie’s waist, his lips at his neck. “ _Fuck me,_ you smell good.”

“ _Get off_.”

There was a gleeful cackle at Morrie’s neck, as the more stable of the pair just realised he’d given the other verbal ammunition. Nick pressed even closer. _“_ _H_ _oping for it_ _.”_

“Oh for fuck’s sakes, Norbert, you know what I meant!”

“You know who calls me Norbert?” Morrie just swallowed. He knew the answer. But Nick was in the mood to tell him anyway, and he was thankful for it. It was hard to focus with a warm breath flush against his skin. “You and Petunia. It’s always you two, you know? I always loved you two, and you always hated me.”

“ _Norbert.”_

“You’re like _ghosts_. Ghosts stuck in my fucking head, fucking up all my thoughts. I’ve had it all, baby, you see,” He leaned back just a little, readjusting one hand to Morrie’s shoulder while he turned to survey the room, the other hand gesturing at it in a sweeping motion. Decay and detritus, he motioned to, with the pride of a king.“I’m _perfect,_ every bird I ever wanted, I got, everything I ever wanted to buy, I did. The people worship their god, _but not you_. Not you, or Petunia. _You won’t fucking do it._ ”

And in a second, he’d turned back, grabbing Morrie’s face in unsteady hands, he kissed him with every bit of strength he could muster. It was overwhelming.

But Morrie kissed him back. He didn’t match the intensity at first, nervous, and tentative. They’d last danced this dance so long ago. It didn’t matter. It didn’t matter as Morrie deepened the kiss, finding himself smiling into Nick’s sloppy enthusiasm. He pulled him in closer, a desperate hand round the other man’s waist, clawing him in, drawing him so near they could barely breathe.

Nick broke off first, cheeks flushed a beautiful pink, and pressed his forehead to Morrie’s, panting.

“ _Stay with me._ ” He saw the hesitancy grow in the pianist’s features. “ _Tonight_. Stay with me tonight, _please_ , Morrie. I hate it here. I don’t want to be by myself. _Please._ ”

Morrie’s breath hitched in his throat. He should’ve left. He should’ve left long ago. He never should’ve arrived. But Nick was there, and Nick was _begging_ , running his hands along Morrie’s hips, kissing along his jaw, down his neck.

He’d never come here just for sentimentality, had he? Not in any sort of normal way. And bragging be damned, this was what he had wanted the whole time.

Nick pressed lower, trembling hands struggling to undo jacket buttons, desperate to meet skin with skin, he fell to his knees at Morrie’s feet, head curled at his thigh. Morrie simply ran a hand through that wild, unkempt hair that brushed over hazy blue eyes and coiled at the nape of the singer’s neck.

“ _Please.”_ It spilt out from nervous lips, so eager to please. So deliciously needy.

So how was Morrie meant to decline?

A feather light touch transformed in an instant, Morrie curled his fingers through Nick’s hair, tightening his grip. He heard the other man’s relieved gasp, felt the joyful laughter under his touch.

Nick was so gracious. So thankful as he fumbled with Morrie’s belt, laying devoted kisses to bared flesh.

What a beautiful sight.

Nick fell asleep long before Morrie. The pianist was left staring up at the ceiling, squinting at flaking plaster in the dim light of dawn. It wasn't a difficult choice to leave, quietly pulling himself from his lover’s grasp, scrabbling around for his glasses and mask on the bedside table. There wasn't any point in staying. He’d only have to hear the same apologies, identical promises layered up in some rotting collage of years gone by.

Morrie had moved on. Of course he had. He had to. He couldn’t keep coming back.

But there was always a place for him. There was always a want, be it sober lust or drunken kindness, that door had always been open. It always would be, wouldn’t it?

There was a comfort in belonging, Morrie knew it well. There was also a comfort in repetition. Routine. Repeating the same cycle of one night stands and haphazard breakups. Knowing things would never improve, and giving yourself to it wholeheartedly.

There was certainly a comfort in that.

The thought didn’t deter Morrie as he continued to dress, glancing over Nick as he did so, watching the softness in his features, the faint smile on his lips.

He’d made his choice. They both had, a long time ago. There was never any hope for this after the band split up, not really. Those days for fondness and sentimentality were no longer allowed.

And yet, Morrie had found himself standing by the bed. One arm outstretched, lingering fingertips extended to leave a final goodbye. He could feel the warmth of his skin, he could climb back into that bed like nothing had ever happened, and maybe, next time, they could be better, they could make it work, _they could be happy_. And then Nick rolled over, his back turned to Morrie. Duvet wrapped around him like he’d never had to share.

It was a lot easier for Morrie to leave when he didn’t have to see Nick’s face. Maybe he could just forget. Maybe the Joy’d get to him, maybe he’d have to find Sally instead. One day, he might turn a street corner, walk right past Nick, and have no idea they’d ever met.

He could finally shut the proverbial door. Lock it and swallow the key.

But the thought made him feel sick.

With an unsteady breath, he stepped off the last of the scaffolding, safe on firm ground and grass again. The building behind him loomed, the cold morning breeze billowing the curtain in the room he’d left. He watched it wave and flutter in the wind, as the temperature bought a chill to his skin.

And then he heard it.

Nick’s voice, echoing from that window. Syllables barely forming, confusion bubbling through. Calling out for him.

It was good to feel so wanted.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Content tags -**  
>  The dubcon aspect comes from Morrie being completely sober while Nick's absolutely wasted, though Nick is the one to initiate sex (which is referenced, but entirely offscreen). It is consensual for both parties but that aforementioned sobriety thing is the main thing here. I would, at best, describe Morrie's response as 'irresponsible'.  
> The substance abuse tag is due to referenced overdosing and ongoing addiction issues.
> 
>  **Main notes -**  
>  ooooooooho this one was a long time coming. I've had the bones of it for weeks but it's been altered soooo much that I think the characterisation's gone a little shakey, so apologies if that's coming through at all, but I figured I had to just get it done before it bothered me even more. Nick is, once again, always a joy to write, even if he's off his head. <3


End file.
